


Omelets

by jedusaur, Missy408



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Break Up, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Found Family, Growing Up, Hate Sex, Life After College, M/M, Post-Canon, Restaurants, Social Media, relationship maintenance is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy408/pseuds/Missy408
Summary: Eric's Lyft pulls up. He starts to get in, still holding the phone to his ear, and his driver says, “Whoa, are you that guy from the Kent Parson picture?"Eric does not want to do this. He really doesn’t. But Jack asked, and god help him...“Yeah," he says. “I’m his boyfriend."





	Omelets

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was completed in April 2016, and miraculously has not been jossed in the year-and-change it took to execute my ~artistic vision~ of it as a multimedia collaboration with an artist. I hope you'll all agree that Missy's incredible artwork was worth the wait!
> 
> Thanks to verbyna for cheerleading and naming the restaurant, and to psocoptera for a truly staggering amount of time spent patiently insisting that I add more feelings.

**1**

The problem with finding a social media job is that genuine excitement is the whole reason Eric is good at social media. He’d love to get paid to tweet, he really would, but he simply can’t muster up anything resembling passion for... what is this, a life insurance company? He makes one more solid effort to parse their horrifically run-on sentence of a mission statement before switching back to his Twitter tab in defeat.

**@omgcheckplease**  
_Job searching is the worst. Anyone want to hire me to tweet about pie?_

Jack’s phone chirps mildly from the other end of the couch. Jack takes it out of his pocket to look at it, then mutes the old Howard Zinn interview he’s been watching on the History Channel. “Not turning up much, eh?"

Well, this is new. “Who taught you how to set up text notifications?" Eric asks. Most of the time Eric is the one holding his hand through the settings pages. Jack would be perfectly capable of figuring these things out if he tried, but he’s decided that he’s bad at technology, and once Jack Zimmermann has a thing in his head there’s no getting through to him. 

Jack shrugs uncomfortably. “Someone from PR."

There’s something he’s not saying. Eric pulls his toes out from under Jack’s thigh and sits up straighter. “For my tweets specifically?"

Jack looks even more uncomfortable. “You talk about me on there sometimes. She thought it would be a good idea, in case there’s something I need to be aware of."

Eric’s stomach sinks. “In case I out you." 

Jack moves to touch his ankle, but Eric pulls away. Jack’s hand sags onto the cushion. “Not on _purpose_ ," he says.

So his boyfriend doesn’t think he’s an asshole, just that he’s careless. Lovely. “It’s fine, I understand," Eric mutters, and curls up at the end of the couch.

Jack’s couch is a lot nicer than this one. Jack’s condo in general is a lot nicer than Eric’s apartment. He wishes Jack would lighten up on the media paranoia and take him over there more often.

For a minute he thinks Jack is going to say something else, but he just sighs and turns the TV’s sound back on. The background noise about Native American genocide settles the question of whether Eric is going to be able to spend any more time focusing on career sites tonight. He goes back to Twitter instead, where his mentions are already full of sympathy and commiseration about the job search. He also has a new DM, which he opens, expecting more of the same.

**@LuckyBlueVegas**  
_We’d love to hire you to tweet about pie, and a few other dishes too. We’re big fans of your recipes channel on YouTube. Would you be willing to relocate?_

Eric almost knocks his laptop onto the floor. “Oh my goodness," he exclaims, forgetting to be upset with Jack. “I think I just got a job offer on Twitter!"

“On Twitter?" Jack turns off the TV. “They can do that?"

“I guess they can." Eric clicks through to the profile. “Oh, it’s that restaurant my aunt and uncle got so excited about on their honeymoon in Las Vegas last year! Mother always says Aunt Carrie inherited MooMaw’s palate and PawPaw’s volume, so if she says a place is good you know it is. The chef there, Angela Harrison, she’s won all kinds of awards. Their official account followed me when I tweeted about Carrie’s trip. I thought it was just one of those corporate accounts that auto-follows everybody who ats them, I didn’t realize they actually read my tweets."

 _I’m not looking to relocate right now, but thank you so much!_ he types. He realizes belatedly that he’s been spewing Twitter-speak again. Usually Jack prods him for clarification when he does that, but instead he’s being strangely quiet. Eric glances over.

Jack looks more tense than Eric has seen him since Samwell. “Are you going to take it?" he asks, stiff as a proper meringue.

“And move to Las Vegas? Of course not." Eric smiles at him reassuringly. “But this is good, that they’re watching my videos in a real upscale restaurant. Maybe I could use that to find something here, follow some restaurant accounts right after I’ve tweeted a new video link and see if they click through to—"

“I think you should," Jack interrupts.

Eric types _I really appreciate the_ before he registers the gravity in Jack’s voice and looks up. “You think I should..."

“I think you should take the job."

Eric wrinkles his forehead, concerned. “You mean... a long-distance relationship? I don’t think that’s such a good idea, hon." It’s been hard enough with him at Samwell the last two years. Jack would be terrible at real long-distance. His self-esteem goes through the basement if he goes too long without cuddles, and he never interprets emoji expressions right.

“No," Jack says, and he looks absolutely miserable. “I don’t mean a long-distance relationship."

*

It’s been two and a half years since they first kissed and three months since Eric moved to Providence, and not a day has gone by without the thought crossing his mind that this is too perfect to last. He thought that maybe expecting it might make it easier when it happened.

It doesn’t.

“Jack," he whispers. He reaches out, terrified that Jack will pull away—but instead Jack grasps his hand like he’s drowning, and that’s almost more terrifying.

“You’re not happy," Jack says, his voice scratchy. “You hate how I hide you. You hate Providence. I’m the only reason you’re here."

Eric shakes his head, fighting tears. “You’re all the reason I need. Jack, _don’t._ "

“If you didn’t have me," Jack says. His face is the kind of blank that means he’s doing it on purpose. He hasn’t used that face on Eric in years. “You’d take the job, wouldn’t you?"

He would, in a heartbeat. But that doesn’t matter. Jack is more important than a job. Jack is more important than anything.

“I’m not doing it." Eric stabs at his keyboard, deleting the second sentence of the half-finished DM and sending it. “Look, I already turned them down, just forget about—Jack, wait!"

Jack is getting up, jamming his feet into his five-hundred-dollar sneakers, walking away. Eric runs after him and catches him at the door, kissing him with all he’s got. Jack kisses back just as hard, sending a jolt of hope through Eric’s body... but then he pulls back so Eric can see his eyes, and it’s horribly clear what kind of kiss it was.

Eric crumples. “You’re my whole world," he says, helpless, barely aware of the hot tears dripping down his cheeks. He knows it won’t change anything. He’s lost enough arguments before they began to know when he doesn’t have a chance. Once Jack Zimmermann has a thing in his head, there’s no getting through to him.

Jack’s face twists up, like he’s lost control of the muscles that keep it blank. “Your whole world shouldn’t be one person," he says tightly. “Kent was my whole world, and that..." He shakes his head. “I can’t be anyone else’s Kent."

He squeezes Eric’s arms and lets go.

*

Eric doesn’t leave his apartment for a week. Then he goes on a grocery expedition, buys a lot of rice and canned food, and doesn’t leave his apartment for another two weeks.

He doesn’t buy any butter.

Jack won’t answer his texts, calls, or e-mails. Eric gets very close to a boombox moment once or twice, but he manages to scrape together the sanity to restrain himself. He mostly just lies around on the couch vacantly watching the History Channel, like he’s going to win Jack back with his irresistible knowledge of the Crimean War.

He also spends a lot of time daydreaming about punching Kent Parson in the face. Eric’s imagination has never been particularly violent before now, but then he’s never been dumped because of someone else’s poor behavior before now.

He doesn’t want to punch Jack. He just wants to _explain._ Eric isn’t Jack, and Jack isn’t Kent, and they aren’t seventeen, and they can make this work. But Jack’s not listening, and there’s nothing Eric can do about that.

He’s nowhere near ready to confront the real world when it confronts him, in the form of his monthly YouTube ad check. He’s been living on those, along with his earnings from the summer he spent slinging lattes at home after graduation, but he hasn’t produced any new content in a month and his ad revenue reflects it. He hasn’t heard back from any of the jobs he’s already applied to, and he hasn’t had the energy to apply to any more. If he doesn’t get back on the vlogging horse, it’ll be less than two months before he can’t pay rent.

Eric contemplates, for a very brief moment, the prospect of acting cheery for a camera.

_Hi! I’m sure you’ve filled the position by now, but on the off chance it’s still available: my circumstances have changed, and I’d be very grateful for the opportunity to work at Lucky Blue._

**2**

“Eric! You callous destroyer of hearts, are you leaving me again?"

Eric locks the office door behind him, smiling over his shoulder. “Just like I do every day at seven, Jorge."

“And yet it never hurts any less." Jorge bats his eyelashes ridiculously. “Kiss goodbye?"

“Shoo." Eric flaps a hand at him. “Go flirt with someone who’ll tip you for it."

“ _Jorge!_ " Angela bellows from the kitchen. In Eric’s expert opinion, she sounds like she’s about twenty seconds away from storming down the hall brandishing her second-favorite chef’s knife.

Jorge starts to dash off, but screeches to a halt halfway down the hall. “Wait, have you done a grumpychef tweet today?" he calls back to Eric.

“No! Oh my goodness, thank you for reminding me." Eric trots after him to the kitchen, where the dinner rush is in full force. Jorge loads his arms up with plates at lightning speed and vanishes into the dining room before Angela notices he’s there.

Lorena shoots daggers at Eric as he pulls out his phone and thumbs on the camera. “You cannot leave me in peace for one single day?" she demands.

“Two hundred eighty-three retweets yesterday," he tells her. “Gotta keep that momentum going. Smile!"

  
_[Tweet from @LuckyBlueVegas reading "Chop chop glare chop chop glare #GrumpyChef" with an image of a scowling middle-aged Latina woman in a white chef’s coat at a cutting board]_

“Two hundred and eighty-three retweets?" says Angela. “Of a picture of my sous chef looking sour?"

“Yes ma’am," Eric confirms.

She raises an eyebrow. “Good work."

“Thank you ma’am."

“Get the hell out of my kitchen."

“Yes ma’am."

He takes the bus home. He’s been thinking about getting a car, but there’s a bus route that takes him straight to work from his doorstep, so there’s not really much point. It’s not like he has friends to visit, or anywhere else to go.

Besides, every minute he saves on his commute is another minute he has to sit by himself in his awful apartment. It’s tiny and dim and the front door sticks so badly he needs a running start to batter his way inside. It was all he could afford when he moved here, and even though he could get a better place now that he’s been saving for a few months, the idea of moving again is just... too much. 

Dinner is boxed pasta with sauce from a jar. Cooking feels like it takes more energy these days than it used to. Sometimes on his days off he pulls together a few things to stick in the freezer, but most of the time he eats pre-made crap or just gets in on the staff dinner at work.

He hasn’t baked in months.

He’s okay. He loves his job, he calls his mom once a week, he gets Samwell updates in the form of excited texts from Chowder now and then, he doesn’t have to worry about paying his rent. There’s nothing wrong with his life, really. He’s not great, but he’s okay.

*

Eric has been bracing himself for Kent to show up at Lucky Blue since his first day on the job. It’s a trendy spot and they serve alcohol; anyone who’s ever clicked the “kent parson" tag on Deadspin knows his presence is inevitable.

It’s strange, living in the same city as the person who effectively destroyed the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and knowing that he has no clue. These days, Eric daydreams less about what he wants to do to Kent’s face with his knuckles and more about what he wants to say to him. It’s different every time—Eric can never think up the perfect words to crush the bastard’s spirit to dust. Mostly, they’re just the words he wishes he could say to Jack.

Shitty would have some good spirit-crushing ideas. But it’s been long enough since Eric talked to him that they’d need to do some social catching-up first, and that’s just not happening right now.

It’s been a normal day so far. Jorge has been getting underfoot all morning, loitering around the office and photobombing the pictures Eric is trying to take of the brunch specials, until finally Eric snaps one of him and says, “Okay, sweetie. You want attention, I’ll get you some attention."

  
_[Tweet from @LuckyBlueVegas reading "If you see this man today, give him a hug and tell him he’s pretty" with an image of an attractive young Latino man in a black polo shirt and black waist apron, grinning flirtatiously]_

Jorge immediately makes a beeline to the dining room to hunt compliments. Eric has just enough time to find the perfect angle on the peach waffles but not quite enough time to actually get the shot before he’s back.

“Eric!" he whispers, like the customers might be able to hear him all the way down the hall—which they actually might, given Jorge’s idea of an indoor voice. “There are _Aces_ here!"

Eric’s stomach drops.

“What, like the cards?" he jokes, trying to mask his distress. He doesn’t need anyone asking questions about why he has a problem with Kent Parson.

Of course Jorge doesn’t notice anything. “Like the _hockey team,_ I swear to God some days you’re gayer than I am. Sports, Eric. Athletes! Arms! Butts!"

Kent Parson’s butt is hardly the best one the NHL has to offer, but Eric doesn’t say that. No one here knows that he used to play, and he would like it to stay that way, at least until he figures out how much of the hockey-shaped hole in his heart was just Jack.

Jorge grabs Eric’s arm and drags him out to the dining room. “You gotta get some pictures for Twitter, but play it cool, okay, play it cool. MR. PARSON, MR. DIXON, WELCOME!"

Kent looks up from his phone and grins. “I’m under some very strict instructions," he says, and stands up to give Jorge a hug. “You’re pretty," he adds dutifully. The other guy sitting at his table (presumably another Aces player, though Eric doesn’t recognize him) looks extremely uncomfortable.

Jorge looks like he’s about to collapse. “Eric!" he says. “Did you get a picture of that? Tell me you got that. For, for Twitter."

Eric did get it, because he’s been trying to hide his face behind his phone. “Yup," he says, backing away. “Got it, thanks."

“Hey!" Kent calls after him. “I know you! Jack’s buddy from Samwell, right?"

Jorge’s eyebrows practically fly off his face.

Eric tells himself firmly that he enjoys being gainfully employed and therefore should not say any of the things he’s been practicing in his head for four months. “Yes," he says instead, with some semblance of a smile. “Jack’s buddy, that’s me. Enjoy your meal."

He tries to retreat to the office—he still hasn’t gotten a picture of the fucking waffles—but Kent catches up to him in the hall and grabs his shoulder. “Hey, man, did I do something?" he asks, infuriatingly innocent.

 _I can’t be anyone else’s Kent_ echoes in Eric’s head, and there’s no one else around—gainful employment be damned, the man is _touching him._

He spins around, knocking Kent’s hand off. “You _ruined_ him, that’s what you did," he hisses. “You fucked him up so bad he doesn’t know what a good relationship looks like." He crowds Kent against the wall. He’s not stupid enough to actually turn it physical, but he’s plenty stupid enough to get up in Kent’s face. “You made him think there’s something wrong with prioritizing the person you love," he says, and he will not cry, he won’t.

“Wow," Kent says, slouching against the wall like it was his idea to lean there. “All that, huh?"

Up close, he doesn’t look like a superstar. He looks like just some jerk with a cowlick. Eric shakes his head. “I don’t know what on God’s green earth he ever saw in you," he says, disgusted.

Kent smirks. “Wanna find out?" he asks, tilting his hips. 

Eric jerks away from him and stares, unable to even comprehend the man’s nerve. Finally he says tightly, “Bless your heart. That’s Southern for ‘fuck you’."

He stalks to the office, locks it behind him, and spends the next twenty minutes perfecting his waffle photography technique.

  
_[Tweet from @LuckyBlueVegas reading "Peach waffles with mango compote and vanilla whipped cream. Come visit us at Lucky Blue and taste for yourself! #brunch #food #yum" with an image of a plate of artfully arranged waffles]_

**3**

“You see the picture yet?"

Eric blinks at the ceiling, trying to pull himself together enough to respond. He answered the phone in a startled flail when it woke him up, thinking it was his alarm, and now someone’s voice is in his ear and he has no idea who it is or what they’re talking about.

He presses the phone into his pillow to muffle the sound while he clears his throat. “What picture?" he asks the unidentified caller, trying to sound halfway professional in case it’s someone from work.

“The picture where it looks like we’re a tenth of a second from jumping each other’s bones. Did I wake you up? Christ, no wonder it didn’t work out between you and Jack if you’re still in bed at nine in the morning."

Eric throws an arm across his eyes to block out the sun, and possibly the morning itself. “How did you get this number?" he croaks, no longer concerned about sounding professional. It’s his day off, damn it. He was going to sleep in.

“Told Shitty I had to get a new phone and lost your info. Don’t get pissy at him about it, I’d say it’s reasonable to assume we know each other at this point. Seriously, go look at that picture. Just open Twitter, it’s trending."

That’s... probably not good.

Eric paws at the floor by his mattress until his fingers find his laptop. He doesn’t need to look at the trending topics. It’s retweeted right at the top of his timeline.

  
_[Tweet from @queen_ofswords reading "I was gonna ask my fave NHL player @kentvparson for an autograph, but he was busy!" with an image of Eric and Kent in the hallway, standing close together and looking intensely into each other's eyes, a men’s bathroom sign visible in the background]_

It has 43,549 retweets. Eric’s stomach roils.

“Aces PR wants to try to spin this so I don’t look like a manwhore who fucks little gay cherubs in public without even making it all the way to the men’s room," says Kent. “Soooo I’m thinking we go out on a couple dates, make it look like I’ve been hiding my relationship for the sake of personal privacy, yadda yadda, then we break up. Cool?"

Eric is not awake enough to muster up the reaction that deserves, so he just ends the call.

Almost fifty thousand retweets. Everyone has seen this. Jack has seen this. God, Eric’s mom has probably seen this. He stares at the picture, queasy. He can tell by Kent’s smirk exactly when in the conversation it was taken, but his own face doesn’t reflect the outrage and frustration he knows he was feeling. They really do look like they’re about to jump each other’s bones.

The phone rings. The number isn’t in his contacts, which means it’s probably Kent again. Eric declines the call.

He tries to look through his mentions, but it’s too overwhelming. He shuts his computer instead and stares at the ceiling for a while, trying to figure out what to do. He can tweet the truth, but no one will believe it, not after that many retweets. It doesn’t sound like Kent is going to deny anything, either. Eric is going to go down in history as the random hookup that outed the first gay NHL player, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

It’s exactly the kind of picture Jack was meticulous to avoid every time they were out together in public. Eric always thought he was being silly.

Shit. He can’t handle this.

He opens his laptop again and googles local ice rinks.

*

The place he chooses has almost no mention of hockey on their website. Sure enough, when he gets out of his Lyft, the only bags he sees people carrying in the parking lot are backpack-sized. The pro shop inside has some cursory hockey gear tucked in a corner, but figure skaters are clearly their primary clientele.

Perfect.

Eric buys a pair of white figure skates, the ones he always wanted when he was a kid but could never have because the white skates were for girls. The woman behind the counter tries to say the same thing, but he blithely assures her that there’s no difference in the structure of the skates, and she doesn’t push it. 

It takes her fifteen minutes to sharpen them, in between helping other customers. Eric can see the ice from here, and he keeps getting whiffs of rink air every time someone comes through the doors. He tries not to fidget too rudely.

The second he steps out onto the rink, he knows this was the right thing to do. He’s been avoiding skating mainly because he was afraid of stirring up hockey memories, but that’s surprisingly not a problem at all. The figure skates help, and so do the twirling skirts and skintight pants around him. The ice has hockey lines painted on it, but that’s true of all the rinks Eric learned to skate on long before he knew anything about the game. It’s easy to settle back into thinking of faceoff circles as crossover practice guidelines, the way he used them growing up.

He makes friendly eye contact with a couple of people as he loops around—the ones who aren’t in rental skates, who keep their water bottles tucked in the benches, who automatically skirt the uneven corner of the rink. He’s never met them, but he knows them, just like the dozens of rink regulars he used to know solely through weekly smiles and nods. It doesn’t take much to bond with people who love skating.

It feels like home. Not the Samwell kind of home, the emotionally complicated home of Faber and the Haus and inch-thick padding and Jack around every corner, but the home where he grew up. When he was figure skating seriously, it never mattered what kind of shitty day he’d had after his blades hit the ice. Skating was always its own world, where nothing else could reach him.

It’s good to be back.

*

Eric is waiting for his ride on a bench outside the rink, feeling much more calm and in control of himself, when he gets a text from Jack.

_You should do it. Kent’s right, the first out NHL player should look respectable._

The calm abruptly disintegrates. Eric draws his knees up to his chest, trying very hard not to make a scene in front of the two little girls on the next bench over. He reads the text again, trying to find any possible way it could make sense without Jack having talked to Kent. There isn’t one.

He talked to Kent. Eric’s heart is pounding like he’s coming off a four-minute shift. Jack hasn’t contacted Eric in almost five months, but he talked to Kent. And he wants Eric to help Kent look respectable. That isn’t _fair._

Jack never used to use proper punctuation and capitalization in his texts with Eric. Or with any of his friends. He only did that with the front office.

A minivan pulls up and the two girls get in, leaving Eric alone outside the rink. He almost calls Jack, but he’s pretty sure if Jack doesn’t pick up he will actually break down, and if Jack does pick up he has no idea what he’ll say. Instead, he calls the unknown number that’s been pestering his silent phone all day.

Kent answers with “Thought that might get your attention."

“What is wrong with you?" Eric demands. “Why would you think it’s okay to use him like that?"

“Did it work?"

Eric just about hangs up on him again, but that’s not solving anything. “Give me one good reason why I should do you any favors," he snaps.

“It’s not doing me a favor," says Kent. “It’s directing the narrative of how the sports-viewing public perceives gay athletes."

Eric rolls his eyes. “Put down the PR talking points, Parson."

“It’s not a fucking talking point, I’ve actually put two seconds of thought into this shit," Kent says, annoyed. Through the anger fumes, Eric feels a little glimmer of satisfaction for getting a rise out of him. “Why do you think I haven’t come out before now?"

“Because you’re a whore who seduces cherubs in public restrooms?" Eric suggests sardonically.

Unexpectedly, Kent laughs. “Yeah," he says. “Basically. Not in public, usually, but I’m really not the right one to pave the way here. It should be some stand-up guy in a stable, happy relationship, not a party boy half the fans in the league already hate."

Eric thinks about that for a minute. He hates to admit it even to himself, but Kent has a point. It’s probably true that this would be good for public opinion of gay athletes. 

Eric doesn’t want public opinion of Kent to be positive. He doesn’t want to pretend to be in love. He wants the whole world to know what a rat’s ass the man is. He wipes his eyes. What he really wants is to do this with Jack. A stand-up guy in a stable, happy, _real_ relationship.

“How about this," says Kent. “When it’s over, you get to dump me in public. Tell everybody how tiny my dick is and shit. Sound good?"

Right now, it sounds like heaven. Eric is pretty sure he couldn’t actually say something like that publicly, even about someone he hates, but he might have to develop a whole new daydream category for it. 

Except he’s still stuck on the part where brutally dumping someone requires dating them first. Dating Kent Parson... just the idea of it makes him want to retch.

Eric's Lyft pulls up. He starts to get in, still holding the phone to his ear, and his driver says, “Whoa, are you that guy from the Kent Parson picture?"

Eric does not want to do this. He really doesn’t. But Jack asked, and god help him... 

“Yeah," he says. “I’m his boyfriend."

  
_[Tweet from @kentvparson reading "cat’s out of the bag, i guess. everyone, meet eric" with an image of Kent and Eric with their faces all cuddled up together, grinning a little too much]_

**4**

**Chris Chow**  
 _omg!!! bitty your dating kent parson??? thats so awesome conhrats!!!!!_

**Justin Oluransi**  
_PUCK BUNNY_

**Derek Nurse**  
_get it bro_

**John Johnson**  
_helluva plot twist bro_

**Larissa Duan**  
_bits, what the fuck are you doing_

 

Jorge perches on the desk in front of Eric, crosses his legs with flair, and says, “I have one question."

“Just one?" Eric asks, dubious. He’s got the first twenty minutes of today’s schedule blocked out for fending off Jorge’s nose.

Jorge takes Eric’s hand in both of his. “I know you’re dealing with a lot right now, what with all the media attention. Plus I saw how angry you were the other day when he pretended he barely knew you. I don’t want to add to your stress too much."

“Thank you," Eric says. He feels bad about letting Jorge draw the wrong conclusions, but... well, he’s just going to have to get used to feeling bad. “I appreciate that. What was that question, now?"

Jorge meets his eyes solemnly. “If you two ever decide you want a threesome, I’m your man, _right?_ "

Eric can’t suppress an undignified snort-giggle. “I swear to you," he says, “if Kent Parson and I ever have a threesome, it will be with you."

“All I wanted to hear, honey." Jorge hops down and lets Eric get back to work nineteen minutes ahead of schedule.

Eric scrolls through his texts again, smiling to himself. The one from Chowder was actually sent before the announcement, because of course Chowder would look at that skeevy picture of two guys eyefucking by a men’s room and read “loving, committed relationship," god forever bless the child. The rest of them all came after Kent’s tweet.

He kind of wishes they’d reached out earlier. A couple _hey, you okay?_ texts after the first picture would have been nice. But none of these people except Chowder have contacted him in months, so he’s mostly feeling lucky that they reached out at all. It was starting to look like Jack had gotten all their friends in the breakup.

He answers them all, keeping it light and vague. It takes him a long time to figure out what to say to Lardo; eventually he settles on _Sometimes life takes you in weird directions._ It’s a little fortune-cookie, but he doesn’t want to flat-out lie to her, and anyway he suspects she’d be able to tell if he did. He’s already stumbled through a conversation with his mom, who clearly knew something was fishy with this story, although thankfully she chose not to interrogate him about it for the moment.

Lardo responds right away with _be careful._ Which is good advice for both the fake situation and the real one.

*

Jorge doesn’t actually stop at one question, to Eric’s complete lack of surprise. He just spreads them out over a series of ambushes throughout the day.

“So how long have you two been dating?" he asks as Eric is putting stickers on the specials menus with a QR code link to pictures of all the food.

"Did you really bang him in there?" he asks as Eric is coming out of the bathroom.

“How did you even find out he bats for our team?" he asks as Eric is investigating the fruit supplies in the pantry to decide which cocktails to promote today.

“No, we didn’t meet playing hockey," Eric answers in the kitchen as he snaps a phone shot of Angela’s favorite chef’s knife, left lovingly nestled in a dish towel at her station. “I wasn’t anywhere near that good."

“You were good enough to play with Jack Zimmermann, though, right?" Jorge points out. Eric’s vlog is all over the hockey news now.

The shot of the knife isn’t perfect. Eric takes another one, and another. “I don’t want to talk about that."

Jorge winces. “Sorry. I keep telling myself to quit bugging you, but I'm just so curious about you two. It seemed complicated, from what I saw."

Eric stares at the best of the pictures, trying to decide whether to go with it or keep trying. “It’s definitely complicated."

Jorge points at him like he’s drawing a period in the air between them. “Okay, message received, I’m done bothering you for real," he declares, and heads out to the dining room.

Ten minutes later he’s back with a barrage of five things he absolutely must know about Kent Parson’s nighttime skin-care regimen. It’s oddly comforting.

  
_[Tweet from @LuckyBlueVegas reading "Misono UX10 Gyutou. I'm dying to get my paws on this beauty, but Angela won't even let anyone else wash it. #ChefInChief" with an image of a chef’s knife on a dish towel]_

*

Kent’s car is ludicrous. Eric has to take a moment to stare at it before he can screw up the courage to get in. It’s bright yellow with a custom PARSE90 license plate, it gleams like it was polished five minutes ago, and it definitely cost Kent more than everything Eric has bought in his entire life combined.

“Hey hey," says Kent when he finally gets in, carefully balancing his pie. “How’s it going?"

Eric scowls. “A gentleman would come to the door to pick up his date instead of texting."

“I can’t get into your building," Kent points out.

Eric gingerly buckles his seatbelt and rests the pie on his lap. “A gentleman would ring the bell," he amends. A gentleman might try, anyway. The intercom for Eric’s apartment doesn’t actually work, as he learned the first time he ordered pizza here. But Kent doesn’t know that.

“Probably for the best that you’re aware from day one exactly how much of a gentleman I am," Kent says. He takes off down the street at about twice the speed limit, almost ruining Eric’s pie and his own upholstery. “So, you ready to meet the boys?" he asks, like he’s not about to kill them both wrapping this thing around a lamppost.

Their first “date" is a barbecue with some of Kent’s teammates. Eric is not at all ready for it. “You bet," he says firmly.

“What’s that you got there?" Kent asks, looking at the very obvious pie on Eric’s lap.

Eric clenches his teeth. “A giraffe," he snaps.

“I just meant what kind—" Kent sighs. “Never mind." He turns on some music and makes a snide little have-at-it gesture at the controls, which Eric ignores. It’s Rihanna, there’s no reason to switch off Rihanna.

The pie is honey pecan. Eric usually makes this recipe with maple syrup instead of honey, but maple tends to send him to unpleasant emotional places these days. Baking for the first time since leaving Providence was even harder than he’d thought it would be, but he couldn’t show up to a party emptyhanded. It’s definitely not the best pecan pie he’s ever made, mostly because of his (silly, he knows) reluctance to buy baking equipment for Kent Parson’s sake, which resulted in doing all the measurements by eye. But he does have a pretty damn good eye. It’s not his best effort, but it’s nothing his MooMaw would disown him for.

Kent’s music choices are aggravatingly excellent. Eric grimly does not chair-dance to Walk The Moon, Sia, or Kesha as they speed along the highway at a terrifying pace. Next time, he decides, Kent is letting Eric drive whether he likes it or not.

With a decent soundtrack and Kent no longer trying to make conversation, it’s hard to stay in a bad mood, but thinking about their destination does the trick. Eric knows what happens when a little guy in an ironed shirt bearing pie walks into a room full of burping athletes. This is not going to be comfortable for anyone.

He tries not to think about how many times Jack left for team events without him, and how badly he always wanted to do exactly this—pie, discomfort, and all.

“I’m staying for an hour, that’s it," he tells Kent as they pull up outside a giant house with a bunch of gorgeous flowers out front. They probably have a personal gardener or something. It’s the kind of property that would need one.

“Whatever." Kent hops out and strides up the front walk, not bothering to wait for Eric.

Eric catches up with him as he’s ringing the doorbell. “Very convincing," he grumbles. “All my favorite boyfriends abandon me in the car and try to outrun me on our first date. Well hi there, I’m Eric, thank y’all so much for havin’ us over today!"

The woman opening the door breaks into a huge grin. “Nice to meet you!" she enthuses, stepping back to let them in. “And you brought dessert, awesome! These goons eat way more sugar than they’re supposed to, I wasn’t sure the brownies would be enough. I’m Emily." She shakes Eric’s hand and accepts a kiss on the cheek from Kent, then wags a stern finger at him. “I’ll have words with _you_ later, keeping such a sweet boy hidden away from us."

“Just made outta chuckles and joy, isn’t he," Kent mutters as he follows Eric to the kitchen, which Eric can sniff out in any house’s layout no matter the size. It’s exactly as stunning as he expected. Lord, he needs to get his shit together and find a better place.

“You can leave that pie on the counter and go right on through to the backyard," Emily calls after them. Eric obeys, letting Kent take the lead on finding the back door.

The lawn looks like a golf course. There’s a pool to one side, and a huge patio boasting several coordinated sets of tasteful outdoor furniture. There are about a dozen people there, with the men mostly congregated by the grill and the women sitting around one of the tables. Eric is fighting the urge to turn right around and go home—or maybe just spend the evening in that kitchen, there are definitely measuring cups in there—when a model-pretty brunette woman kneeling by the drink cooler brandishes a massive bottle of Bacardi and hollers, “Heyyyy, the secret boyfriend! God, kid, you look scared out of your fuckin’ wits. Beer, mojito, or should I just hand over the bottle?"

Eric trots immediately in her direction. “Mojito heavy on the rum, please," he requests. 

“You got it." She tosses half a lime into the air behind her back, catches it in front as she stands up, and squeezes it into a glass with one hand while offering him the other. “I’m Kristen."

“Goodness," Eric says, shaking her hand. “I’m glad I didn’t ask for a beer, it would explode like a baking soda volcano after all that."

She laughs. “I’m a bartender. Don’t ask how I wound up married to an NHL player, it’s a skeevy story. I know what you want, you gross-ass motherfucker," she adds as Kent comes up next to Eric and puts an arm around his shoulder. She pops a bottle of Corona, sticks a lime wedge in the top, and holds it out to him with a disdainful thumb and finger.

“Thanks, babe," Kent says, raising the bottle in a douchey little toast. “C’mon, Eric, let me show you off to the guys."

Kristen hands Eric his drink. “Don’t get embarrassed about coming back for more too soon," she advises. “There’s no shame in asking for help."

“Yes ma’am." Eric doesn’t slam it, though. It doesn’t really matter whether these people like him, just whether they buy him and Kent being together, but Eric’s mother did not raise him to be the kind of guest who gets hammered in the first ten minutes of a social event.

Kent’s teammates are actually not too bad, all things considered. Eric has plenty of experience handling hockey bros, and they’re clearly making an effort for their captain’s sake. Jeff Dixon, the guy who came to Lucky Blue with Kent, has a bit of a permanent stinkeye going, but the rest of them are perfectly nice if a little awkward around Eric.

The rest of the evening proceeds in the same vein—nice, but awkward. These aren’t Eric’s kind of people, and he’s not theirs. He gravitates toward Kristen, whose loud profanity is soothing in a way that bewilders him until he realizes how much she reminds him of Shitty. It helps that she didn’t grow up eating caviar, either; at one point everyone else is commiserating about their suboptimal boat-buying experiences, and he’s about ready to bail when she covertly rolls her eyes at him and executes a deft change of subject.

It gets less weird as the alcohol hits his system, and a few drinks in he’s devouring kebabs and having a lovely conversation with Emily about gardening, which it turns out she does herself. They have a part-time groundskeeper for the lawn and landscaping, but she says the flowerbeds are all her, as is the vegetable and herb garden she takes him around the poolhouse to see. Her artichokes are so beautiful Eric tears up a little, for which Kristen gleefully gives him a hard time when they come back to the party. 

“Having fun?" Kent asks, sidling up to Eric and tossing a casual arm around his waist. He’s smirking again.

Eric checks his phone and discovers that they’ve been here for two and a half hours. “Oh my goodness, I need to head out," he says, pulling up Lyft on his phone. He doesn’t, really, but now that Kent’s smug face is all up in his business, he’s much less interested in sticking around.

“Let me bag you up some vegetables to take with you!" says Emily. “The broccoli is taking over, I haven’t been able to cook fast enough to keep up." She disappears into the house.

“Don’t give him any artichokes," Jeff calls after her. “Wouldn’t want him crying while he’s driving."

Eric frowns a little. It’s the same kind of shit Kristen’s been saying, but somehow the way she says it isn’t so mean. “I’m not driving," he says. “I’ve got a Lyft on the way."

“Don’t be a dumbass, I’ll take you home," says Kent.

Eric pats his shoulder as condescendingly as he can. “Oh no, sweetie, you’ve had a few. You stay and enjoy yourself, I’ll be just fine."

“Oh my god, who the hell brought this slab of heaven?" Kristen demands through a bite of Eric’s pie. He raises his hand modestly, and she throws her phone at him. “We’re best friends now, and also you’re making my birthday cake next year. Put your number in there."

“You’re kidding, right?" Jeff says. He crosses his arms. “We always get your cake from Leopold’s."

“Shut your face, dear," Kristen tells him. “It’s my birthday and I’ll do what I want to."

So that’s the Ace she’s married to. Eric tries not to let his disappointment show. Not that he expected to make friends here. Even if he wanted to invest emotional energy into building another social support network just to lose it all over again when he moves away, NHL wives would not be the place to start. It’s definitely for the best to leave now.

“Here you go," says Emily brightly, reappearing with a full-to-bursting tote bag. “It was so great to meet you, Eric. We’ll see you in the family section at T-Mobile, I’m sure!"

“Sure," echoes Eric, feeling like kind of a jerk. “Thank you so much for having me, and for the vegetables."

“Be safe, honey," says Kent, and leans in for a kiss.

Eric tries not to flinch. They’ve talked about this, and he agreed to it, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. Kent doesn’t ham it up and make it a big tonguey deal like Eric was expecting, though. It’s brief and soft, the kind of goodbye kiss Jack used to give him on his way out the door for practice, and suddenly Eric’s chest is hurting.

On his way home, he pokes through the tote bag. He’s going to have to spend the next week cooking if he’s going to use all this up before it goes bad. Broccoli soup he can freeze, but the artichokes—which she did put in, no thanks to Jeff—will be better fresh. Maybe a cheesy pasta bake with artichoke and lemon... ooh, or maybe an artichoke spinach dip with fresh bread... 

He really needs to buy some measuring cups.

**5**

Kent refuses to let Eric drive the yellow atrocity, and Eric refuses to get back in the passenger seat with Kent at the wheel, so he ends up taking the bus to their next date. Kent originally wanted to do it near Eric’s place so he could walk him home, but Eric would rather not lead the paparazzi straight to his apartment, so they go to a fancy Asian fusion place around the corner from Kent’s condo instead. That way any loitering photographers will still get the doorstep kiss. Eric is already dreading it.

Kent pulls his chair out for him, which is irritating even though Eric has literally dreamed about his ideal boyfriend pulling his chair out for him. Everything about Kent is irritating—the little slurp he makes when he takes a sip of water, the entitled glance around for a server as soon as he’s done reading the menu, that stupid shirt he’s wearing. It’s like he’s actively trying to be as much of a douchebag as possible.

“Dude," says Kent. “This isn’t gonna work if you can’t look like you’re enjoying yourself."

Eric glares, accidentally proving him right. Whoops. He tries to adjust his face into more of a loving-boyfriend expression, but he’s pretty sure it’s not particularly effective.

Well, there’s only one way he can think of to make this actually enjoyable. He leans his chin on his hands and turns on his most charming smile. “So, darling," he says sweetly, “tell me all about the nasty oil slick you found during that breakaway in San Jose on Monday."

He can see it hit home, just for a split second, before Kent recovers. “Aw, pookie bear, you watched my game?"

“Every second of it, sugar," Eric coos. “Except the Vegas power plays, I just had to look away from those after the second time y’all made it through two minutes without a single shot."

“We _had_ a shot on the first one, it just didn’t get recorded because San Jose’s scorekeeper is a gigantic fucking homer," Kent growls, and oh yes, now Eric is having a good time.

*

“No, okay, watch this, though." Kent pushes his phone across the table. “Look, it’s like fourteen seconds in."

“You’re talking like I didn’t see it on TV when it happened." Eric plays the video. “Yup, looks just about like I remember it. Are you gonna try to tell me you’re not two feet offside there, really?"

“Don’t watch me, watch Booger." Kent reaches over to restart the video like he thinks Eric doesn’t know how, the condescending bastard. “Look, he’s got the puck, nobody’s behind him, the D is more worried about the pass to me than they are about the shot so he’s got all the room in the world—and there, see, he pulls up right before he hits the blue line. There’s no reason for him to slow down there! Why would I expect that? It was a dumbass offside, I’m not arguing that, but it was his fuckin’ fault."

“Now that doesn’t sound very much like a team captain," Eric chastises. “A good leader would take responsibility for screwing up that scoring chance. And his team’s shot at winning their first Stanley Cup at home." He bats his eyelashes. “You’re forgetting to smile, dear."

Kent almost rips the check signing it and stands up. “We’re leaving."

“So soon?" Eric trots to keep up with him. “You know, this won’t work if you can’t look like you’re enjoying yourself."

Kent stops outside the restaurant, takes a deep breath, and laces their fingers together affectionately. “How about this," he says, dimple in full force. “Why don’t you just tell me why you’re so goddamn convinced that your failed relationship is my fault, get it out of your system, and then stop being such an asshole?"

The irritability Eric has been feeling for the last week swells up into real anger. “I already told you," he grits out, and starts walking, dragging Kent behind him by the hand.

Kent catches up in two steps. “Not really," he says, clenching Eric’s fingers a little too tightly. “You just said I fucked him up, and something about prioritizing people. I can’t read your mind, buddy. I mean, hon—"

“ _Don’t._ " Eric seriously cannot take the fake pet names thing right now. “He said—he said he couldn’t be anyone else’s Kent. Like whatever you did to him was the worst thing he could imagine doing to me."

Kent’s hand goes limp in Eric’s. “Oh," he says softly.

They walk the rest of the way to Kent’s building in silence, hand in stoic hand. Eric’s not sure what to make of that reaction, but the rage is ebbing back down to baseline annoyance. There’s a girl across the street who’s not being very subtle at all about following them. She stops when they do, phone raised.

Kent takes Eric’s other hand, drawing him close. “You gonna chicken out on me?" he asks.

Eric’s not much for smirking, but he does his absolute best before leaning in and sinking his teeth into Kent’s lip.

He’s not expecting Kent to moan like he’s getting his dick sucked.

Eric jerks away from him. “You weren’t supposed to _like_ that," he whispers fiercely.

“My bad," murmurs Kent. His pupils are completely blown. “C’mon, one more. Promise I’ll hate it."

The girl is still across the street, diligently documenting the moment. Eric sighs and leans in again, wrapping his arms around Kent’s neck. Kent’s hands slide around Eric’s hips and onto his lower back, gently pressing their bodies together as they kiss, and Eric can feel exactly how much he was lying about hating it. He can’t resist biting again, just to see if it will get the same response. It does; Kent makes that noise again, and tries to grind their hips together.

“Enough," Eric says, and steps back. 

Kent visibly pulls himself together. “I’ll, uh, see you Saturday at the game?" he says, sounding a little dazed.

Eric shrugs. He hasn’t decided yet whether he’s comfortable using Kent’s free Aces tickets. It feels a little... transactional.

“Text me, I guess," Kent says, and heads inside. After he gets out of the camera’s sightline, Eric can see him adjusting his pants.

  
_[Tweet from @amaaziinggraace reading "parse n his boi getting hot n heavy on the street. he didn’t come inside tho" with an image of Kent and Eric kissing on the sidewalk]_

**6**

Angela is in the office doing paperwork, looking very businesslike in her reading glasses. Eric takes a picture from the doorway, already mentally composing a tweet to go with it.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d let people know before you take pictures of them," she says without looking up.

“Oh, I’m sorry." Eric puts the phone in his pocket. “I always do with the customers, but with behind-the-scenes stuff candid photos tend to go over better."

She does look up then, over the top of her glasses. “And listening to your boss goes over best of all."

Eric cringes. “Yes ma’am. Should I delete it?"

“No, you can use that one. Just keep it in mind from now on." She takes off the glasses and looks at him appraisingly. “I hear there’s some talk about you on the social media these days. You doing okay?"

Eric was hoping she wouldn’t hear about it, since she’s not much for either hockey or computers. He probably has Jorge to thank for spreading the news. “I’m fine, thank you," he says, praying she’ll drop it.

“Okay." She clears the papers off to one side and closes a window on the computer. “All yours."

Eric sits down in the swivel chair and watches the doorway after she leaves, counting to ten in his head. Before he gets to eight, Jorge sticks his head around the frame and hisses, “Have you _seriously not tapped that ass yet?_ Are you out of your _mind?_ "

Eric grins. It’s nice that some things can be relied on. “Good morning," he says.

“I mean, I don’t go seeking out creepy pictures of your PDA, but I’m not going to stop following all my favorite gossip blogs just to _avoid_ them, and I can’t just pretend I don’t _know_ that you left the third-hottest man in Vegas blue-balled on his porch last night!"

“Pretty good so far, thanks so much for asking," Eric drawls. “And how’s yours going?"

“Tell me," Jorge pleads. “You’ve fucked him, right? You just had to get home for your beauty sleep last night. Please tell me you didn’t take those perfect hindquarters off the market just to waste them."

“Hindquarters?" Eric repeats, fighting a giggle. 

“Because the man is a _magnificent stallion_ ," Jorge explains. 

“Ah," says Eric. “Well, I’m definitely not going to have sex with a horse, no matter how magnificent it is."

Jorge points at him accusingly. “So you haven’t yet!"

“I have not had sex with any horses," Eric teases. He pulls up tabs for Lucky Blue’s Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Tumblr, and his own e-mail. There’s a new message from Kent about how to pick up tickets from will call. He sighs.

“What’s up?" Jorge asks, dropping the bullshit.

“Oh, just trying to decide whether to go to the Aces game tomorrow." Eric rubs his eyes. He didn’t get much sleep. “It just feels a little like taking advantage of the relationship, you know?"

Jorge purses his lips sympathetically. “He wants you to cheer him on, doesn’t he?"

That’s exactly what the e-mail says: _come cheer me on._ “Yeah."

“Well, then you should go," Jorge concludes.

Eric nods. “I guess."

“Text me live updates," Jorge says. “And that also goes for the night you finally come to your senses and rip his pants—"

“JORGE!" yells Angela.

“—off his FLAWLESS ROCK-HARD BODY," Jorge finishes at top volume, already halfway down the hallway.

Eric shuts the door and sits back down to stare at the e-mail, still torn. It’s not really this game he’s concerned about. It’s the Falconers game, which is coming up soon. Eric has been trying to convince himself not to buy a ticket for that game since he first looked at the Aces’ schedule, right after he moved. If he starts going to Kent’s games, he won’t be able to resist going to that one, and seeing Jack right now can't possibly be a good idea.

He’s not too jazzed about the prospect of seeing Kent, either. The memory of making him fall apart is even more satisfying than the fantasy of punching him in the face, and Eric has absolutely no clue what to do with that.

His phone buzzes with a text. It’s Kristen: _so if hypothetically you made cookies that turned out so hard you literally could not bite through them, what would you say you did wrong?_ A moment later, she adds: _where by you i mean me and by hypothetically i mean not hypothetically._

Eric flexes his thumbs and embarks on a lecture about flour varieties, overmixing, baking time, and oven temperature. Nine texts in, she responds _STOP, UNCLE, I’M GETTING COOKIES FROM THE FUCKING STORE_ , and he startles himself laughing out loud.

  
_[Tweet from @LuckyBlueVegas reading "Our fearless leader at work. It’s not all sharp knives and open flame around here! #ChefInChief" with an image of a 40ish black woman wearing a white chef’s coat and reading glasses, doing paperwork at a desk]_

*

“Eric!" Emily waves from the middle of a mostly-empty row. Eric scoots in to give her a hug, and she motions to the seat next to her. “C’mere, sit with me, honey."

Eric looks at his ticket. “I think I’m a couple rows—"

She waves a hand dismissively. “Oh no, this whole block is friends and family, we just sit wherever. How’d the stuff from the garden work out?"

“Oh, it was all delicious, and you were right about how to roast the broccoli," Eric starts, and they pick right up where they left off at the barbecue.

Emily is sweet, and she seems to really know her way around a kitchen. She’s not as much of a baker as he is, but she’s an expert on all things vegetable and protein. “Fifteen years of marriage to a hockey player will do that to you," she laughs, and Eric only feels a tiny pang of longing before he gets right back to picking her brain about cream sauce.

He’s so engaged that it takes him by surprise when the arena goes dark and the light show starts. He’s only ever been to Bruins and Falconers home games before, and neither of them had rink projection systems this fancy. It makes sense, when he thinks about it, that the Las Vegas team would spring for the most dazzling show available. Still, it’s a little strange when a thirty-foot image of Kent Parson skates around the lower bowl stickhandling an Aces logo and then shoots it up at the nosebleeds, where a giant neon version of the same logo lights up. Eric forgets, sometimes, the sheer quantity of money involved in this business.

The game itself is much more familiar. Eric has been to plenty of NHL games—never sitting next to another player’s partner, and the seats weren’t usually this good, but hockey is hockey. Emily mostly only cheers when her husband is contributing; she spends a lot of time looking at her phone, but she seems to have a sixth sense for when his line is up. Eric tries to get away with not cheering for Kent by letting her think he doesn’t know what’s going on, but that doesn’t last too long. He’s never been what anyone would call a sedate hockey spectator, and spending three years living in the Haus didn’t help.

“What are you _doing_ , you cocky little piece of—apple pie," he amends at the last second, when Kent tries to get fancy on a rush and loses the puck instead of passing to either of his _two wide-open teammates, what is wrong with the boy._ Emily is still laughing at him when the buzzer to end the first period goes off.

Eric blushes. “I was a hockey fan a long time before I got together with Kent," he tries to explain.

She shakes her head. “Oh, sweetie, believe me, I understand. I tone it down here because you never know where someone’s pointing a camera, but you should see me at home with the TV."

She goes to the bathroom during the break, and Eric looks around to see if he can find Kristen. _you at the game?_ he texts her.

 _nope, hs friend’s baby shower,_ she texts back, and then: _100% killing it at the “don’t say baby" game, i have mardi gras beads from every bitch here. thx for the cookie tips, 3rd try turned out semi-edible!_

 _glad to hear it, have fun!_ Eric responds, and puts his phone away, trying not to be disappointed that she isn’t here. He’s never going to see her again after he and Kent break up, and he can’t really see sticking it out much longer with this whole charade, so there’s no point getting too attached.

He manages to make it through the rest of the game without cussing out his supposed boyfriend. The Aces win, so he doesn’t have to bite his tongue too much. Emily offers to show him the room where they’re supposed to go wait for the players—which is especially helpful of her because, in typical thoughtless fashion, Kent didn’t even tell him there _was_ a room, much less where to go. And then Kent doesn’t come to meet him, just leaves him there for what feels like forever before texting _you can come to the locker room, lmk if security gives you any shit._

Eric finds him toweling off his hair, shirtless, and forgets all about having to wait. Sweet jesus, those shoulders. He stands there for a moment resisting the urge to touch before he remembers himself and goes right ahead. The muscles bunching around Kent’s shoulder blades feel just as amazing as they look. 

Kent turns and kisses him, smiling. “Hey, babe. We’re going out for drinks, you wanna come with?"

“Sure," says Eric. If all else fails, he can sit with Emily again and talk about what she’s planting for the fall.

*

He knows as soon as they walk in that it was a bad idea. It’s a shots-and-hookups bar, not a sipping-and-chatting bar, and when they find the rest of the group, it’s all Aces.

“Kent, I’m the only significant other here," Eric shouts over the music.

“Kristen usually comes," Kent shouts back.

“She’s at a baby shower," Eric says, but he doesn’t bother raising his voice enough to be heard. Kent isn’t listening, anyway, too busy accepting a foaming glass from Jeff. The rest of them are laughing, horsing around, stealing each other’s beer back and forth like Ransom and Holster used to do. They don’t seem to have noticed Eric at all.

He leans close to Kent’s ear and says, “I think I’m gonna head home, actually."

“Huh? Why?" Kent offers him the beer. 

Eric shakes his head. “I’ll see you later," he says.

“What, you don’t wanna hang out with us without the other girls around?" sneers Jeff.

Eric doesn’t have time to say a single word before Kent punches Jeff in the face. 

Everyone at the table jerks around to look at them. Eric recovers first, grabbing Kent’s arm and trying to pull him away. It doesn’t accomplish a whole lot until a defenseman a foot taller than Eric pitches in. Then Jeff finally gets over his shock and tries to swing back, and another Ace gets between them, hand on Jeff’s chest. Eric quickly drags Kent out of the bar, waving off help when Kent goes willingly.

“Give me your keys," says Eric, when they’re out on the sidewalk.

“I didn’t get a chance to drink any fucking beer, I’m fine to dri—"

“ _Give_ me your _keys._ "

Kent hands them over and sulks in the passenger seat the whole way to his condo. Eric parks the ridiculous car in the garage and leads the way to the elevators. He doesn’t say another word until the door of Kent’s condo is closed behind them.

“I thought I was watching that whole game, but I must have looked away for the part where you hit your fool head." Eric puts his hands on his hips. “What were you thinking?"

“I was thinking it’s not okay for him to say that shit." Kent sits down on the couch and slouches back. “I know. Stupid. Video’s probably already on YouTube. I’ll hear it tomorrow from management and possibly also the league, so can we not?"

“Well." Eric sits down too, sighing. “I appreciate the misguided sentiment."

Kent glances over, surprised. Eric meets his eyes openly. The honest truth is that after years of hearing that manner of thing, it’s nice to have someone step up in his defense. The boys at Samwell always did during games, where it was expected, but off the ice no one has ever punched a bully for Eric’s honor.

“Don’t do it again," he says.

“I won’t," Kent promises. He’s still staring into Eric’s eyes. And now he’s sitting up, and touching Eric’s cheek, and leaning close...

Eric turns away. “Not when we’re alone," he says, sounding firmer than he feels.

Kent slouches back down. “Okay," he says quietly. There’s a long, awkward silence. A cat creeps out from behind the couch and rubs against Kent’s shins. He reaches down to scratch its head.

“So," he says. “You wanna rewatch tonight’s game and tell me all about how I fucked up?"

“ _Yes,_ " says Eric, relieved. “Starting with that three-on-one at the end of the first. We need to watch that about two dozen times."

“I knew you’d crawl up my ass about that," Kent says, a dimple sneaking onto his face as he reaches for the remote.

**7**

Eric goes to the Falconers game. Of course he goes to the Falconers game. Every moment he’s spent deliberating about whether or not to go to the Falconers game has been wasted, because he was always going to go to the damn Falconers game.

The incident at the bar hasn’t hit the media, to his surprise. Apparently no one who recognized the Aces was looking in their direction at that moment. The only explanation Eric can think of is that hockey isn’t as big a thing here as it is on the East Coast. If a Bruin had pulled this, there would have been three videos and a trending hashtag within the minute. 

Kristen hasn’t texted Eric, and he hasn’t texted her. He’s been a little worried that she’s mad about her husband’s bloody nose—he doesn’t know her that well, but it seems like getting on her bad side would probably not be a great plan. She’s there at the Falconers game, though, and cheerfully waves him over to the empty seat next to her. “Thanks again for the cookie help," she says, and lifts up the jacket on her lap to offer him a hidden flask.

“You’re welcome." He shakes his head to the flask. The idea of running into Jack while drunk is almost laughably horrifying.

“You know anything about Providence’s game?" she asks, tucking away her contraband. “We only see them once a year, so I don’t really know their lineup or anything. I think Kent said you moved from there, right?"

Eric opens his mouth to tell her about their statistically inexplicable PK numbers on the road, and finds himself saying instead, “So, are we not going to talk about the punching thing?"

Kristen rolls her eyes. “Those two are dumb as rocks, both of ‘em. They just need to drink a lot of beer and talk about their feelings, and then they’ll be fine. It’s their thing."

Eric hunches into himself. “It’s not just their thing," he says. “Do you know what Jeff said to me?"

“It’s not about you," she assures him. “It’s about Kent not trusting him with his big gay secret. He’s not homophobic, he’s just hurt and taking it out on you because he’s a moron. He’ll apologize when he figures his shit out, I promise."

She’s not that much like Shitty after all, Eric thinks. He wishes Shitty were here now. Or Lardo, or someone else better at articulating this stuff than he is. Eric hates conflict.

But he’s no longer a college kid with a Haus full of backup. He’s on his own here, just like he was in Georgia. If he doesn’t speak up, no one’s going to.

“Saying homophobic things _is_ being homophobic." He squares his shoulders. There’s a whole friends and family block, he can sit somewhere else if he needs to. “Being upset doesn’t create these things. It lets them out."

Kristen sighs. “He’s just trying to hit Kent where it hurts the most. But yeah. I shouldn’t make excuses for him."

Eric lets her sit on it for a minute before he says, “So, our PK on the road is just terrible. If Vegas gets a power play, it’ll be a hilarious battle over who can play worst."

“Wait, our?" Kristen narrows her eyes. “You’re rooting against your man, really?"

Eric taps his heart solemnly. “Jack Zimmermann got here first," he says, and he’s pretty sure he does a good job of sounding like he’s kidding.

Jack skating out onto the ice doesn’t hit him as hard as he was afraid it might. It’s jarring, but it’s not pure devastation. It feels like he’s just watching Jack on TV—which he doesn’t do anymore, but it’s not impossible to deal with.

It’s tougher when he sees the way Jack plays against Kent. Eric knows Jack’s game better than almost anyone, maybe better than anyone at all except Jack’s dad. He can predict how Jack will handle just about any situation on the ice under normal circumstances, and he can tell that these aren’t normal circumstances. Jack is being less aggressive on the backcheck, often choosing to cover Kent and let the D-men handle the puck battles. He positions himself a little more defensively on the attack when Kent is cherry-picking around the blue line. Once, he stickhandles way more than usual before a shot, and Eric could swear he was showing off. All put together, it tells a story about their history more effectively than anything Jack has ever said in words. 

But the closest Eric comes to really losing it is right after Jack has a fantastic opportunity on a wide-open net and the Aces goalie bends over backwards to blindly snatch the shot out of midair. While the rest of the arena is going nuts over the highlight-reel save, Jack heads back to the bench and smacks the boards with his stick in frustration. Guy leans over to say something, and Eric can see Jack snapping back.

Eric knows what Guy said, because he’s seen Jack react that way to a dozen different people saying the same thing: _it wasn’t your fault._ It’s the wrong thing to say to Jack, because no one will ever convince Jack that failure isn’t his fault. The right thing to say is: _learn from it, do better next time._ Eric spent the last half of his sophomore season saying that to Jack, and it calmed him down every time.

Suddenly Eric isn’t just missing Jack, he’s missing his whole team, and the Haus, and Samwell. His throat clogs up as he watches Jack lean his elbows on his knees, blaming himself.

“You okay?" Kristen asks.

Eric coughs. “Yeah. Just wishing that shot had been an inch lower. Heck of a save."

She seems like she buys it.

*

Security doesn’t pick up on Eric hovering outside the visitors’ locker room, which is not a testament to their competence, given that he’s pretty sure he’s exhibiting every “crazy stalker fan" warning sign there is. He keeps starting to leave and then changing his mind and turning back, until his indecision turns into straight-up pacing.

He’s just decided he’s out of here, for real this time, he is going to turn that corner, when he hears Jack call, “Bitty!"

It’s so good to hear his voice that Eric is dealing with traitorous tear ducts before he even turns around. Jack jogs over to him and stops a respectful few feet away, like he can tell how close Eric is to freaking out at the sight of him.

“Uh, how are you doing?" he asks. “How’s the job?"

He’s not doing the blank-face thing. He looks worried, sincere, and he’s not trying to hide it. Eric tucks his hands in his pockets so he won’t be tempted to try for a hug. “It’s great," he says. “I love it."

“Good. That’s good." Jack hesitates. “And how’s... the thing with Kent?"

“He’s a pain in the rear," Eric says, and Jack flashes a grin so fast he almost misses it. “But it’s mostly not that bad. It’s..." He takes a deep breath, but he has to say it. “It’s nice not to hide."

Jack nods slowly, and looks at the floor. “I... yeah. I thought you might... yeah."

Eric bounces on the balls of his feet uncomfortably. “How about you, how are you doing?"

“I’m good," Jack says. “Leading the team in points, and closing in on Tater for goals. We’re in a solid playoff position. Marty hurt his ankle, so the lines got shuffled up and I ended up with—"

“Jack," says Eric. “What’s the rule?"

“Right." Jack smiles sadly. “Uh, Shitty came to visit last month. We had a really good talk. I’m figuring some things out."

“I’m—" Eric’s voice catches, and he clears his throat. “I’m glad."

Jack shifts forward. “Bitty," he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond to all your texts and stuff. That was awful of me."

Eric bites his lip. He wants to say it’s fine, he understands—but he doesn’t, he can’t possibly understand how anyone could say “I love you" one day and completely check out the next. At least now, looking at Jack’s face, he knows for sure that Jack didn’t just stop caring. On some deep, scary level, he was wondering.

“Zimms!"

Eric turns around, taking the opportunity to step further away from Jack. Kent is coming at them with what Eric is starting to be able to identify as his defense-mechanism smile. Eric panics for a second that he’s about to try for a kiss in front of Jack, but Kent doesn’t even touch him, just gives Jack a quick back-pat in greeting and then turns to Eric and says, “The boys are heading out in a few. Kristen’s coming for sure, and I told Booger to pick a quieter place this time. And Jeff has something to say to you."

Eric folds his arms. “You know what," he says thoughtfully. “I don’t really want to hear it. I’m going home. Text me tomorrow and we’ll figure out dinner. Jack..." He pauses. “You take care of yourself."

“You too," says Jack, and his eyes are so wistful that Eric gives into temptation and hugs him. He won’t embarrass himself nuzzling Jack’s neck or anything with Kent standing there.

It’s a mistake. Jack’s arms around him are so perfect, so exactly what Eric has been desperately missing, that he has to let go after a second and speed-walk down the hall to get away before the tears start falling.

**8**

Eric is hanging Easter dessert event flyers in the bathrooms when Jorge bursts in yelping, “Jack Zimmermann just came out!"

Eric freezes. That... can’t possibly be right. Jack spends half his life guarding the secret of his sexuality. There’s no way he would just flat-out change his mind in only—

Six months. It’s been six months since Eric had any idea what was going on inside Jack’s head.

He puts his roll of tape down next to the sink before he drops it. “How?" he manages to get out.

“A Falconers Faceoffs video. They’re these things the Falconers do where two of the players—"

Eric strides past him straight to the office computer to pull up the page. It’s Jack against Poots, something about greatest dates.

“You know the FalconersTV URL by heart," Jorge observes, confused, and then: “Oh. Ohhhh, shit."

“One time I took a girl to the zoo and this one weird bird—" Poots starts. Eric impatiently skips forward.

“—date I’ve taken a girl on?" Jack says. “Well." He’s wearing his game face, not the semi-relaxed expression he usually has in these videos. “I’ve never taken a girl on a date, not really, but I bet Poots has never given a guy a better time than I have. I think my favorite was—the other Canadians on the team won’t be happy about this, but I once watched the Fourth of July fireworks in the back of a truck with—"

Eric pauses the video. “Jorge," he says, his voice faltering a little. “Could you do me a favor and take some pictures with my phone when table 9 gets their birthday torte? Landscape orientation, and try to get one with her blowing out the candles?"

“Yeah, of course," Jorge says gently. 

Eric hands over the phone. “Thank you."

“You need anything else?" he asks hesitantly. “I can tell Angela if you want to take off."

“No." Eric shakes his head hard. “No, I just need a moment. Without my phone. Give it back to me after the birthday thing, okay?"

Jorge nods and closes the door behind him.

“The other Canadians on the team won’t be happy about this, but I once watched the Fourth of July fireworks in the back of a truck with a guy, and that felt pretty special," Jack says. “I guess it’s not as interesting a story as Poots fighting a bird for his girl’s honor, but I don’t think a great date really needs to be an interesting story to anybody who wasn’t there."

“I once watched the Fourth of July fireworks in the back of a truck with a guy, and that felt pretty special," Jack says.

“That felt pretty special," Jack says.

“That felt pretty special."

  
_[Tweet from @LuckyBlueVegas reading "The aftermath of the brunch rush. Can’t make 38 omelets without breaking some eggs" with an image of a compost bin full of vegetable scraps and eggshells]_

*

Eric spends most of the day following the story. Kent hasn’t done any interviews since he came out, sticking with the “focus on my game not my love life" angle, but Jack is handing out thoughtful quotes like candy to every reporter who calls. Eric’s not surprised by that; he knows how strongly Jack feels about responsibility. He wouldn’t do this if he wasn’t going to do it all the way.

What’s confusing is himself. He’s been wanting Jack to feel comfortable coming out for years, and that would have been just as true if they hadn’t been dating. This belongs to Jack, not to him. So he should be feeling happy for Jack. Not... betrayed, like he’s been cheated out of something. Like Jack did this to hurt him. He _knows_ that’s not true, but somehow knowing it doesn’t help.

It’s a long day. Eric doesn’t have any energy left at the end to stop himself from going straight to Kent’s condo.

Kent opens the door in workout gear, looking about as wrung-out as Eric feels. “Hey," he says. “I don’t suppose you got any warning on this."

“If you’re going to talk about Jack, I’m leaving," says Eric.

“Uh," says Kent. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?"

Eric kicks the door closed and grabs a fistful of Kent’s douchey BioSteel T-shirt. 

“Gotcha," Kent says, and goes where Eric puts him.

*

Eric has been thinking about sexual responsiveness a lot since the day he kissed Kent on the street. He’s only had sex with one person, and Jack was always very focused on Eric, constantly concerned about whether he was getting it right. He never really gave very many indications of his own pleasure. He would never, ever moan in public like Kent did when Eric bit his lip.

Eric liked the public moaning. A lot. It made him feel powerful, desirable, to see someone so turned on by him. He was wondering if he had some kind of unexplored exhibitionism kink, but now, with no one else watching Kent squirm and gasp underneath him, he’s pretty certain it’s not about that.

“Stop pawing at me," he says, catching Kent’s wrists and pressing them into the pillows. “Keep your hands there, you hear me?" He bends down to suck Kent’s nipple into his mouth, and Kent practically wails.

Eric likes it. A _lot._

He crawls off Kent and roots through the bedside table for condoms and lube, which he tosses onto the bed. Kent waits for him, flushed and panting, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest. Eric slides a hand slowly up his leg and over the solid curves of his abs before straddling him again.

He leans down. “What do you want?" he whispers, letting his lips barely brush Kent’s ear.

Kent shivers. “Ride me. Please."

“What if I’d rather fuck you?"

“Then fuck me, just... _please._ "

Eric’s dick throbs. He rips open a condom and puts it on Kent, then starts fingering himself. He does prefer bottoming, he just doesn’t like the assumption. Kent shifts his hips restlessly, hands still by his head where Eric told him to keep them.

The obedience is another thing Eric apparently likes. At least, from cocky shitheels who won’t listen anywhere else.

He eases himself down onto Kent’s dick, and Kent gasps, “Fuck. _Eric._ "

It’s new, being completely in charge, controlling the pace and the depth and everything. Eric stops moving entirely for a minute with Kent buried deep inside him, just to see what Kent will do. What he does is he trembles, and he whimpers, and he takes what Eric gives him. 

Eric draws it out as long as he can stand it, slowing down every time he gets close and every time Kent seems like he might be. Jack used to get louder after a while, maybe because it took him that long to let down any of his inhibitions, but Kent gets quieter and quieter the longer they fuck. He still reacts to every little thing, but it gets more physical and less vocal. When he finally comes, his entire body is shaking, and the only sound he makes is a long raspy release of breath.

Eric lets him slip out and leaves the condom on for the moment. He sits against the headboard, guiding Kent’s head to his dick. Kent rolls over willingly and sucks him in. He’s very, very good at sucking cock. Probably from all the sleazy hookups, Eric thinks, and he comes fantasizing about pushing Kent to his knees in the bathroom at Lucky Blue.

*

“Meow," says the door.

Kent gets up to let Kit in and throw away the condom, and lies back down a lot closer to Eric than he was before, tossing an arm over Eric’s stomach. Eric opens his mouth to tell him to back off, then changes his mind. He’s not sure when Kent stopped driving him up the wall every second they’re together, but when he lets go of his kneejerk aversion to the man’s entire existence, he finds that the casual contact is kind of nice.

Kit jumps up on the bed to investigate the afterglow. Eric reaches out to stroke her and says, very slowly, “I think maybe it’s possible that my failed relationship is not your fault."

Kent laughs bitterly. “Funny. I’ve been thinking maybe it is."

Eric hesitates. “Well, I don’t know what happened between you two. Jack didn’t give me much to go on." Kit curls up against Eric’s naked hip, and he rests his hand on her back. “He never really gave me much to go on. I think that might have been part of the real problem."

“A lot happened. It was an intense thing." Kent takes a deep breath. “I tried to get him to come out with me when we were seventeen, did he tell you that? I said we were going first and second in the draft, we’d blow up the history books. He wouldn’t even let me finish the sentence."

“He does that," says Eric sympathetically. “Just makes up his mind and won’t hear a word to the contrary."

Kent shakes his head. “He didn’t with me. That was the first time he ever said no to me, about anything. And he never said it again until after, you know. The draft." He stretches out his arm so he can touch Kit’s fur too. “He kind of latched onto me, early on. He always wanted me to take the lead on everything, even stuff that should have been up to him. I think that’s what he meant when he said he didn’t want to be your Kent."

Eric stares at the ceiling, thinking about how young seventeen is.

“So yeah. Maybe I did fuck him up. Maybe we fucked each other up." Kent sighs. “I was definitely fucked up back then. I don’t think my mom’s ever forgiven me for proving her wrong about the NHL being an unrealistic career plan."

Eric wonders if Kent’s mom has ever been to one of his games. It occurs to him for the first time that Kent might not have known about the friends and family waiting room at the arena.

“Anyway," says Kent. “I had a lot going on, and I didn’t realize how unhealthy that shit with Jack was until it was too late to fix it."

Kit yawns and nudges Eric’s hand to let him know he isn’t paying attention to the important things here. He goes back to petting her, thinking.

“Jack and I had a rule," he says. “When I asked about his day, he had to tell me at least one thing I couldn’t have found out by talking to the beat writers. I had to remind him about that rule almost every day." He rests his hand on top of Kent’s and laces their fingers together, turning his head to meet Kent’s eyes. “I don’t think the breakup was your fault."

“What else did he say to you?" Kent asks. “When he mentioned me. Did he say anything else?"

Eric runs over the conversation in his head for the millionth time. “Not about you. He said I wasn’t happy in Providence, and I said he was my whole world, and he said one person shouldn’t be my whole world."

“You think he was wrong?"

Eric looks at him sideways. “Bless your heart," he says wryly.

Kent pushes himself up onto his elbow and kisses Eric; softly at first, like he’s expecting Eric to pull away, then deeper when he doesn’t. “Would you go out with me?" he asks, a little muffled against Eric’s lips. “For real?"

Eric breaks the kiss to stare at him. “Are you serious?"

He certainly looks serious. “I didn’t think I wanted to date anyone for a long time, but... I think I was just carrying a torch for Jack." He rubs his hand along Eric’s side. “I like being your boyfriend. I think I’d like it even more if you stopped poking sticks at my weak spots for fun. Think about it?"

Eric thinks about it. He honestly kind of likes the idea. He’s been reluctantly enjoying some of his time with Kent already, and that sex really was amazing. He could see it working. His life would be pretty much like it is now, except he wouldn’t hate it so much.

_That felt pretty special._

Eric closes his eyes. “I’m still carrying my torch," he says. “If I ever get over him, maybe. But don’t hold your breath."

Kent nods. “I figured. Just... thought I’d ask."

Eric squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry about how I’ve been treating you."

Kent squeezes back. “It’s okay. I haven’t been the world’s greatest boyfriend either."

“I don’t want to announce the breakup," Eric decides. “You do it."

“Already?" Kent’s hand clamps down around his. “Can’t we keep it going long enough to fuck a few more times? You can’t tell me that wasn’t some baller sex, c’mon."

He sounds desperate enough that Eric knows he’s doing the right thing by bowing out now. He gently extricates his hand and sits up, dislodging Kit. “Sorry," he says again, to her and Kent both, and reaches for his underwear.

  
_[Tweet from @kentvparson reading "breakups suck. pity party with my best girl" with an image of a a half-eaten donut and a Corona propped up against a cat]_

**9**

**Chris Chow**  
 _omg bitty i’m so sorry!!! is there anything i can do????_

**Emily Svoboda**  
_How are you holding up, hon?_

**Jorge Fernandez**  
_you’re getting a better pity party than that, no backtalk, meet me after work tomorrow_

**Kristen Dixon**  
_MEN ARE SCUM. WHERE WE GETTIN HAMMERED_

 

“I brought chocolate," Kristen announces, slamming two frighteningly heavy-sounding flat boxes on the table.

Jorge beams at her. “I like this girl already!"

“Kristen, Jorge. Jorge, Kristen. She’s married to Jeff Dixon," Eric adds, mildly curious how that will go over.

Jorge’s eyes bulge. He presses his lips together, like he’s physically holding back whatever he wants to ask her, and then he firmly says, “This is about _you,_ Eric. C’mon, let’s crack these open and hear all about it." He starts pulling the cellophane off the chocolates.

Eric makes a face. “Can this be a cheering-up kind of night instead of a catharsis kind of night?" He’d rather not have to make up stories about why he’s miserable.

“Of course!" Jorge lifts the lid off one of the boxes, revealing a huge array of truffles. “You two get started on these, I’ll get us some booze. Any requests?"

Eric shakes his head, and Kristen says, “Tell the bartender to impress me."

The chocolates are delicately decorated with gold leaf and tiny sprinkles and stuff. Eric picks one at random, which turns out to be coffee-flavored. It’s really good—they must have been expensive.

“So," says Kristen. “I had a talk with Jeff the other day about calling people ‘girly’. Didn’t go too well. I wound up making him sleep in one of the guest bedrooms. So I’m a hundred percent on board the ‘fuck boys, eat chocolate’ train today."

“I think we might need to get the whole bar on board that train to finish all this," Eric says. He takes another chocolate and bites into it.

It’s maple.

“Shit, what did I miss?" asks Jorge when he gets back with the drinks to find Eric bawling into his half-eaten chocolate. He sits down next to Eric and puts an arm around his shoulders.

Kristen picks up a truffle in each hand. “I think it’s a catharsis kind of night," she says, and neatly crams them both into her mouth at once.

*

“I want it to be all his fault, but it’s not." Eric drains his glass and moves on to the remainder of Jorge’s Sex on the Beach, which he ordered because of the name and did not like. “It’s partly his fault, because he didn’t talk to me, and he didn’t trust me to make my own decisions. But it’s partly my fault too, because I never went figure skating in Providence, you know? And it’s partly Ke—his ex’s fault, but not as much as I thought it was. I don’t know, maybe it’s really no one’s fault. Maybe sometimes relationships don’t work out even if both people really try. Or maybe he didn’t really try. I don’t... I don’t know." He points at Kristen unsteadily. “Also when you say ‘fuck boys’ you’re being just as bad as Jeff calling me a girl."

Kristen points back at him. “I had not thought of that," she says. 

“I know. Because you wouldn’t say shit to me on purpose. Because you’re a good friend. Thank you for being a good friend."

“Make it last forever, friendship never eeeends," she sings.

“It does, though," Eric says, tears welling up again. “If something like this’d happened two years ago, Shitty and Lardo and Ransom and Holster would’ve hitchhiked their dumb butts here to get me drunk. Now we’re all grownups and we don’t do stupid shit for each other anymore and we barely even talk and, and, and friendship does end." He morosely eats another chocolate. It’s raspberry.

“ _Fuck_ boys," says Jorge, who’s been having some trouble following the conversation since his third cosmo.

Eric points at Jorge instead. “You," he says. “Don’t like peaches. I don’t understand. Do you have a tongue?"

“Yes!" Jorge presents evidence.

“Does it _work?_ "

The bartender interrupts whatever dirty comment Jorge is obviously gearing up for. “Sorry, folks, but I meant it the first three times I said it. Closing. Now. Out."

Eric offers him one of the decimated boxes of chocolates. “You should try one of these," he says. “They’re so good."

“Once again, no thank you. Once again, _out._ "

They make it outside without anyone falling over, though there are two close calls, and stand around for a moment. Kristen and Jorge are both swaying lightly, almost but not quite in sync.

“So are we going home?" Eric asks.

“Hell no," says Kristen.

“Then where are we going?" He looks around. All the bars on the block are closed.

“We should go to your restaurant," she suggests.

Eric shakes his head. “That is a terrible idea. Jorge and I would both get fired."

“It’s a great idea," corrects Jorge. “But we don’t have a key."

“I have a key," Eric remembers.

“Awesome," says Kristen. “Eric, you’re in charge of the key. Jorge, you’re in charge of the chocolate." She deposits the boxes in his arms. “And I am in charge of walking in four-inch heels without falling over." The two of them set off down the sidewalk together.

“Y’all forgot about the getting fired," Eric protests, trailing behind them.

“Hey, you were the one getting all nostalgic for the stupid bullshit your friends pulled in college," Kristen calls over her shoulder. “What would your ol’ pal Shitty do, huh?"

*

“I’m not doing it," says Eric.

“You’re doing it!" Jorge shouts from the pantry.

“I’m not doing it," says Eric.

“Either you’re doing it or I’m doing it, and I once literally burned a salad," says Kristen. “Left the lettuce too close to the stovetop. It was spectacular."

“I’m doing it," says Eric. He grabs a cutting board and lays it down on the counter.

“What do you want?" Jorge calls. “Potato?"

“Tomato," says Eric. “My MooMaw always says a tomato is the best judge of a knife."

Jorge brings over a beefsteak tomato and sets it down on the cutting board. Eric takes a deep breath and picks up the knife.

“Ohhh," he says, hefting its weight. “Oh my sweet baby lord."

“Do it!" Kristen heckles.

“Do not rush me," Eric says sternly. He lowers the knife and just barely rests it on the surface of the tomato. It splits in a perfect line.

“Look at that," he marvels. “I hardly grazed it. Oh, what a beauty." He dices the tomato, savoring the feel of it, and then carefully washes the knife, dries it, and puts it back exactly where he found it.

“You’re such a rebel," says Kristen.

Eric shakes his head. “You do not understand the sin I just committed." He’s already feeling bad about it.

“How awesome was it, though?" Jorge grabs a chunk of the tomato and starts to pop it in his mouth.

“Jorge!" Eric intercepts the tomato and tosses it back on the cutting board. “That is stealing from the restaurant!"

Kristen busts up laughing. “So what are we gonna do with it, then?" she asks between giggles. “Serve it to a customer?"

“I don’t know." Eric contemplates it for a moment. “I have to pee," he concludes. “Don’t eat it."

One corner of the Easter flyer in the men’s room has come unstuck and flopped forward. It’s the one he was putting up when Jorge told him about Jack, which is probably why the tape job is shoddy. Eric fixes it.

He’s getting close to sobering up, close enough to be aware that they need to leave before Lorena gets in with the produce. He checks his phone—it’s 2:45, they have time.

2:45 Pacific. 5:45 Eastern.

Jack’s alarm is going off right now.

Eric uses the toilet and takes his time washing his hands. He still doesn’t want to go back to the kitchen. Instead, he ducks into the office and sits on the desk in the dark, legs dangling, staring at Jack’s contact page on his phone and thinking about the look on Jack’s face when he said he’d been figuring some things out.

How did that conversation go? What did Shitty say to him that finally got through? Was it the kind of blunt challenge that Eric always thought would be too much for Jack? If he had just put his foot down and _made_ Jack come out, would they still be together? Living together, even? Or would that just have hastened the breakup? Was there ever anything Eric could have done?

Eric’s not sure how long he’s been zoning out when there’s a soft tap at the door and Jorge pokes his head in. “You okay?"

Eric puts his phone down on the desk next to him. “Ish."

Jorge comes in and bumps his thighs against Eric’s knees. “You know," he says, “I talk a lot of crap, but seriously, if you need a rebound I’m happy to be your drunken mistake."

Eric leans forward to kiss him experimentally. It doesn’t really feel like anything. He rests their foreheads together and says, “I think I just need a hug."

“You got it, babe." Jorge wraps him up and holds him tight.

It feels like one of Holster’s hugs, the real ones when he knew there was something wrong. Holster was always the best one for hugs, because he never ended the hug first, just held on as long as Eric needed.

Eric lets go. “Thanks, Jorge. I’ll be out in a few minutes."

Jorge rubs his upper arms comfortingly and leaves him alone. Before he can get into another cycle of vacillation, Eric picks up his phone and hits the call button.

*

“Bitty." Jack’s voice is rough. Eric can tell he hasn’t used it since he woke up. “Why are you awake?"

“I’m happy for you," Eric says. “I didn’t want to call until I could say that honestly."

“Thanks," says Jack uncertainly.

“I’m also mad at you," Eric continues. Holy shit, but it feels good to say that. “I’m mad at you for breaking up with me out of the blue instead of talking to me first, and for ignoring me for months and then talking to me just to say I should date Kent, and for coming out by yourself instead of with me. I’m mad at you for telling your PR people about our problems instead of me." He starts to cry. “I wasn’t going to out you on Twitter, for god’s sake. I’m mad at you for not _trusting_ me."

Jack doesn’t respond for a long time. When he does, it’s not what Eric is expecting at all.

“I’m glad you said that."

Eric rubs his eyes on his wrist. “Why are you glad that I’m mad at you?"

“I’m not," says Jack. “I hate it when you’re mad at me. But if you are, I want you to tell me. You never tell me when you’re mad."

Eric almost laughs at that. “You’re saying _I’m_ the one who doesn’t talk about my feelings? Really?"

“Not the ones you think I won’t like."

Eric digests that for a moment. He doesn’t think it’s entirely true, but he’s pretty sure he knows where it’s coming from.

“Jack," he says. “Tell me about Kent."

It’s not the first time he’s asked. He brought it up a few times early in their relationship, and Jack was always willing to talk about it, but that was back when Eric thought of Kent as Satan’s vacation home. The story might sound different now that he’s seen the doofball arguing with his cat about The Voice duet battles. 

Jack’s sigh crackles into the phone. “I guess you mean the stuff you couldn’t find out by talking to the beat writers."

“Yeah."

“I used him to dodge responsibility," Jack says. “I wanted him to run my whole life, even when I didn’t like the calls he made."

“Because if someone else made the call, then it wasn’t your fault if the call was wrong," Eric guesses.

“Exactly. It was cowardly of me, and it wasn’t fair to him."

A fresh flood of tears blurs Eric’s vision. “So when you said you can’t be anyone else’s Kent, you meant that’s what I was doing."

“No!" Jack almost shouts. “No, I was taking your decisions away from you. As long as we were together, you didn’t have a choice about where you lived or what you could tell people about your relationship. I was running your life just like Kent."

“So Kent making decisions for you was your fault, and you making decisions for me was also your fault?" Well, isn’t that just about the most Jack Zimmermann thing Eric has ever heard. “Listen," he says, wiping the wetness off his cheeks again. “You were right that I wasn’t happy the way we were. I did need my world to be more than just you. But you didn’t force any choices on me. I do wish you had let me have a say in that last one, but nobody needs permission to leave a relationship."

“I’m sorry," Jack says. “I was afraid that if I talked to you, you’d change my mind."

Eric laughs at that, a little hysterically. “Jack, you’ve never let me change your mind about a thing."

Jack is quiet for a second before he says, “You changed my mind about coming out."

“I did?" Eric tries to remember if he said anything about that at the arena. He doesn’t think so, but that whole conversation is a little foggy. 

“You did," says Jack. “it just, uh, took a while to drill through my concussion-resistant titanium skull. According to Shitty."

Eric smiles involuntarily. He’s missed Shitty a lot.

“You changed my mind about a lot of things," Jack says. “I know I’m not good at listening. I get worried I’ll listen too much like I did with Kent, I guess. But I wouldn’t have been with you if I didn’t respect what you had to say."

“Maybe..." Eric takes a deep, shaky breath. “Maybe say that to... your next boyfriend. Maybe say more, in general. It would have helped."

Jack doesn’t answer for a long, long time. Finally, he says hoarsely, “Bitty. I love you."

Eric breaks down sobbing. He tries hard to keep it silent, but it doesn’t work. He’s not a quiet crier.

When he can breathe again, he says, “I hate Providence."

“My contract is up this summer," Jack says. “I’m not sure I want to renew it. I was thinking maybe Montreal. You... you’d like Montreal. I think."

Eric slips off the desk and checks its drawers for tissues. There’s one crumpled in a corner behind the stapler. He dabs at his face with it, sniffling.

“I’m so sorry, Bitty," Jack says. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how bad I screwed this up."

Eric closes his eyes, fresh tears soaking straight into the tissue. “Learn from it," he recites. “Do better next time."

“I will," Jack says, in that flat monotone Eric used to think was unreadable. “I promise."

“Yeah," Eric whispers. “Me too."

*

He stands still with his eyes shut for a moment after they hang up. Lord, he needs some sleep. He stops by the bathroom to blow his nose and wash his face, and then goes to find Kristen and Jorge.

They’re sprawled on the floor behind the bar. The chocolate boxes are open again. “Eric!" says Kristen when she sees him. “We ate all the maple ones so they won’t make you cry!"

Eric smiles weakly. “Thanks, y’all," he says, and sits down on the floor with them.

**10**

**B. Knight**  
 _BITS! so good to hear from you! it’s all good, I suck at staying in touch too. got time to skype like right now? I gotsta show you what the stache is up to these days_

**William Poindexter**  
_no worries. things are good, how about you?_

**Adam Birkholtz**  
_Bitty bitbit I miss you too! and your pies, mmmmmf yom nom but mostly you_

**Chris Chow**  
_good!! my toast got burned in the shape of brent burns’s beard this morning!!!! how’s yours going???_

**Emily Svoboda**  
_We’ll definitely stay in touch! If you’re uncomfortable around Kent, you just let me know and I’ll uninvite him to all the team barbecues. I like you better, he’s not as good at listening to me blabber about my tulips. :)_

**Kristen Dixon**  
_are you kidding dude, I sang Spice Girls to you. idc if you cut Kent’s balls off with a switchblade, we are besties for LIFE. can we go skating next week, i wanna learn how to do spins_

**Larissa Duan**  
_yknow i 100% called it the second parson posted that selfie of you two. i was like nope, that relationship is as fake as that smile, bits doesn’t even HAVE that many fuckin teeth. so hopefully that answers your dumbass question about whether we’re still friends_

**Kent Parson**  
_yeah. maybe not right away, but yeah._

 

In the morning, Eric marches straight into the office and tells Angela, “I snuck in to mess with your knife last night."

Angela looks up from the computer, unruffled. “Did you now? I was here until after one AM."

“Night may be the wrong word, ma’am." Eric squares his shoulders. “It was stupid and I’m very sorry. I promise I didn’t hurt the knife, I just cut up a tomato."

“That explains why there was one diced tomato in the prep bin when Lorena came in," Angela says. “She was wondering. Very loudly."

So that’s what happened to it. Eric just assumed Jorge hadn’t listened when he said not to eat it. “Ma’am... am I fired?" he asks. He’s ready to accept the consequences of his actions, but she doesn’t seem too bothered.

She puts the monitor to sleep and leans her elbows on the desk. “No, but you’re giving me that key back. Sit down."

That’s more than fair, considering. Eric sits, getting his key ring out of his pocket.

She waves it off. “Later," she says. “I try to stay out of my employees’ personal lives, Eric, but you’ve been making it tough. You want to tell me what’s going on?"

He opens his mouth to feed her the story about his breakup with Kent and finds himself saying, “I faked dating an NHL star for the greater good and then he fell for me, and now there’s drama involving the NHL star out east who I used to actually date over whether we’re going to date again."

Angela peers at him over her reading glasses. “Well, aren’t you just the catch of the lake."

Eric looks at the floor sheepishly, remembering Jorge offering to be his drunken mistake right here on this desk. “Not really, ma’am. I keep making a hash of things."

“And is this drama going to take you back east?"

Eric shouldn’t have mentioned the “out east" part. He doesn’t want to jeopardize his chances of keeping this job, but he can’t just lie to her. “I don’t know, ma’am. If so, it won’t be until late summer." He fiddles with the key, trying to get it off the ring. “I really love Lucky Blue. I’d like to stay if I can."

“If you need a job somewhere else, let me know," she says. “I have contacts all over the East Coast. Boston, New York, Baltimore. I’d be happy to help you find something."

“Thank you, ma’am," Eric says, a little blown away. He was expecting a very different conversation when he came in here. “Um... Montreal?"

“Yeah, I know lots of people in Montreal. Great food scene." She smacks the desk. “All right, we’re done here. Go do the job you got."

“Yes, ma’am." Eric lays the key on the desk and heads toward the kitchen, pulling out his phone.

  
_[Tweet from @LuckyBlueVegas reading "Tormenting a hungover server by making him taste-test pies for our very first YouTube video. Tune in tomorrow to see if he survived!" with an image of Jorge holding his head in his hands, looking nauseous at three slices of pie]_

**Author's Note:**

> Parse is right: San Jose’s scorekeeper is [a gigantic fucking homer](http://www.hockeyprospectus.com/rink-effects-how-are-scorekeepers-effecting-shot-counts/).
> 
> Swear to god I wrote the "bless your heart" line before it was used in canon. (Yes, that's how long I've been sitting on this fic.)
> 
> There was going to be a followup to this where Jack and Bitty and Parse had a threesome and Parse ended up with Jorge, but someone left an asshole comment complaining that I hadn't written it yet and now I have lost all interest in ever doing so. Entitled whining does not accomplish your goals, kids.
> 
> If you liked the art, go follow Missy [on tumblr](http://missy-loves-art.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
